


Knight of Judgement

by Wolkov



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), Batman - All Media Types, Batman Begins, The Dark Knight, The Dark Knight Rises
Genre: Action & Romance, Action/Adventure, Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, Hurt Bruce Wayne, Love/Hate, Mutual Pining, Nolanverse, Romance, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Smooching the batman, Smut, angsty Bruce, like a lot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-17 06:55:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28970208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolkov/pseuds/Wolkov
Summary: (Post The Dark Knight Rises)Bruce Wayne, having returned to Gotham to help it rise from ashes, realizes he must once more face his alter-ego and don the cape and cowl as an ancient, deadly organization threatens the very foundation of the city, bringing in a new form of terror that only the Batman is capable of serving it justice.Hestia Ambrus, a professor at Gotham University, holds the key to saving the city from impending judgement—but it comes at a terrible price, one that has her warring with the Dark Knight himself, her each encounter deadlier than the last.As imminent doom hovers over the city, they find themselves falling into a web of political schemes and dangerous assassins, but far more lethal, they find the incitation of long buried, forgotten desires playing with their innermost vulnerabilities, a fate they can’t seem to escape with every thrilling clash of their ways...
Relationships: Bruce Wayne/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 20





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> AN: It took every ounce of energy in me not to name the title: "I'm not training polo, Alfred." Another fic? Me? Absolutely.

_Prologue,_

The evening rain, rolling in foggy clouds and chilling blows of wind rustling autumn leaves fallen over cracked cobalt-stoned pavements and puddled streets, found Gotham city a sulking recluse from the rest of the world—but no more than its silent hero, a monument more now in memory than flesh and blood, despondent and listless in an equally as despondent and listless castle sitting in the outskirts of the city. 

Through the wrought-iron gates and into the a many inner hallways of Wayne Manor, through the marble, stone, and dark wood, through the intricate tapestries, impressive collections of art and furniture, and esteemed portraits of long past Wayne characters, the unmistakable flowing orchestral sounds of Mozart’s Die Zauberflöte could be heard chasing room to room. 

They only increased in volume as a lone figure, with only a silver tray to rest in his adroit hands, made the journey into the nightly nest of the Master in the West wing, where, upon opening quietly the doors to a dim dining room, found the person in question reclined in a plush chair by a hearth crinkling low timbers of fire. The phonograph set separate in the far side of the room played the Finale 11,9, and as it hit a crescendo, the thunder outside clapped, and for a moment, Alfred Pennyworth mused the city, as well as its protector, were in this rather shared disquietedness together. 

He set the tray by a small table to Master Bruce Wayne’s right. “I prepared a little dinner. Mulligatawny soup, your favorite, sir.” 

“Thank you, Alfred.” Softly spoken, but nonetheless weary. Of what, Alfred had not yet caught a clue. He lounged with his eyes closed, brows lowly set, showcasing a relaxed demeanor, but Alfred knew Master Wayne’s most minute ticks, and knew to acknowledge the grim setting of his lips nothing short of disgruntlement. Since his Master’s return to Gotham city five months ago, he had not once seen it waver. It might bloody as well make a name for itself there. 

“You have hidden yourself away in the most unconventional parts of the manor, I see,” Alfred quipped. 

There was a soft growl in the back of Master Wayne’s throat. “What are you talking about, Alfred? This is where our family dined every night. I believe I’m holding up the tradition quite well.” 

“Ah, yes. Tradition you had not paid much heed to until your arrival many months prior. I believe no one takes rejection quite healthily—” perhaps he _had_ a clue as to why Master Wayne was not himself as of lately “—but that is no reason to subjugate oneself to such unkind measures. Would you like me to prepare much warmer rooms for you, sir? Maybe closer to the courtyard? You could still brood as you stare out to the garden, but it would suggest a change of scenery.” 

The vinyl gently skidded to a stop as the grand Die Zauberflöte saw its curtains close, and the phonograph, with the room, fell into silence. The only sounds heard were the soft crackles of firewood and Master Bruce Wayne’s deep breathing. 

“Your input is much appreciated, but I see no need.” 

“Very well, then, sir. I will just have to find my long walks here therapeutic. Is there anything more you need?” 

For the shortest second, the grim line faltered to a smile; it was short-lived, but it still occurred, and Alfred couldn’t help but smile in answer. To assume that, at such an age, cracking a smile on Master Bruce Wayne’s face would count as his greatest achievements was sheer satire, but even so, there was much pride to be had in such a task, for this was _his_ Master Bruce Wayne, and that was different. 

“No.” 

He lifted the lid off the tray, promptingly pushing it in his direction. “It shall suffice to keep you warm for another hour or two.” He made to turn and walk out when Master Wayne said, “Has there been any news on Robin?” 

“Not that I’m aware of, sir. This would be his third night absent from the Batcave, but he did mention that this particular mission would require much time away. I believe he said it was to do with a valuable source finally providing intel on the whereabouts of an organization he said was called, hm, the Court of Owls.” 

“The Court of Owls?” Master Bruce Wayne inquired, reaching for the soup and setting it on his lap. After a moment, Alfred made out a soft slurp. Something inside him eased at that such a view. At least he was eating. 

“Yes. A supposed juvenile secret crime organization, is all Mister John Blake cracked, interfering with the rising politics of Gotham city. I believe the success of this mission will provide us with more information as to who and what exactly we are in bed with, and how best to counterfeit their efforts.” 

“I see. Let me know when he gets back.” 

“Will do, and, ah, a bit of chamomile tea by ten o’clock, sir? It will help you sleep.” 

“With half a teaspoon of honey, yes.” 

“All right, sir.” 

As Alfred made to depart, the _beep_ in his front chest pocket stalled him. He reached inside, opening the untraceable text he’d received from Robin, the man in question. He always kept a private cell in case any of the boys needed a hand, and they _always_ needed a hand. 

Before he even got to the end of the text, Alfred’s face suddenly dropped, as did his heart, something that only ever happened twice—the first was when news of Martha and Thomas Wayne’s death knocked on the door he opened, and the second was when he heard Master Bruce Wayne fly the atomic bomb past Gotham city and over the water, and turn to vapor with it. Alfred could not have the heart to proclaim Master Bruce Wayne dead, for a sliver of hope told him to hold out. And rightly so, as he thereafter spotted him in Florence with a certain Selina Kyle. His heartbreak, though short-lived, was profound enough to convince him to never repeat his deed again—abandon the only family he’s ever come to love and raise. He would be here, waiting for him, however long it took, if ever he needed to come home to family. After a full year abroad, he did, but not in the manner Alfred expected to welcome him. 

He cleared his throat, willing his voice to a controlled tone as he said, “Master...Wayne.” 

In the whole time they conversed, this was what finally made his Master turn his head and regard him. 

“I believe...a terrible sort of trouble has found us.” 

Master Bruce Wayne furrowed his brow, but the only thing playing in Alferd's head was the last part of the text, evidently written in the hastiest manner, that spelled: 

_—I’m dying._

Chapter One, 

“Good morning!” 

The weight of papers slamming down on the desk ricocheted off the walls and into the very confines of Hestia Ambrus’s brain, uncourteously alarming her out of sleep and into a state of disorientation. 

“Here is your morning coffee, small bag of bagels, mail and morning paper—you're going to love what’s on the front page—and your daily dose of sunshine.” Her assistant, Sasha Andrews, walked over to the window and snapped open the shutter blinds. The sullen tableau of a rain-soaked Gotham saluted them. A bit in the distance, gray clouds rumbled, bringing in fresh storm. “Well, as much sunshine as we can get in this time of year. Or ever.” 

Hestia blinked. “Right,” she mumbled. 

“Pulled another all-nighter?” 

She groaned, rubbing at her eyes. “Had to finish grading some papers. My students are a bit of an anxious bunch.” She stretched to a standing position, and her joints creaked and cracked in protest. Teaching archeology at Gotham University and simultaneously managing a small, two-room CRM firm, Ambrus Ltd., in Old Gotham had its way of stealing the very hours of her day into her night. Complaining was a privilege she could not afford, but even through the _very_ excruciatingly painful hours of her work, there was much to be grateful for. 

A sigh of sublimity escaped her when she palmed her cup of coffee and took a sip. _Mmm_. Especially a little slice of heaven like this. She walked over to the window and leaned against the frame. Sasha followed suit, and both of them stared out into the dreary streets of Gotham, momentarily quieted by the view. Unlike the central and financial districts of the city, Old Gotham still retained some of its gothic architecture, and she had to admit, there was something fascinatingly ominous in the manner rain pattered down on hunched gargoyles crowning the arched roofs of buildings overlooking the busy streets. She could stare out her window all day... 

“No baby Esther today?” she asked. Sweet, baby Esther was Sasha’s seven-months-old girl with the prettiest hazel eyes, courtesy from the mother, and a head of honey curls, courtesy from the father, who was no longer in the picture. 

“She’s sleeping in her stroller by my desk. The baby-sitter said she was available tomorrow, but not today, so I’ll have to make do. I also have a bit of housework to catch up to. This week has just been too crazy.” Sasha turned, her short strawberry-blonde hair framing her face and reflecting off the daylight just right. “Speaking of catching up, you have yet to answer Agatha Antique’s proposal. They want one before the week ends.” 

“The fifteen hundred dollars?” 

“Mhm.” 

Hestia shook her head, her uncombed raven locks falling over her shoulders in complete disarray. “The answer is no. I can’t fly out all the way to Cuba, lead the expedition on my own, secure whatever antiques they want secured, perform the examinations, and then fly them all the way back to Gotham so they can showcase them in their store for as little as fifty bucks. Yes, the economy in Gotham has drastically fallen, but that is still too little.” 

“All right. Scratching that off the list. On a brighter note, Gotham Museum successfully transferred the money as per our latest deal. The cargo company will secure the items around two o’clock today.” 

“That’s perfect. Wire sixty-five percent of that to The Gotham Archeological Organization for Youths and budget the rest to our end of the month expenses. If there is any leftover, stash it into our savings account.” 

“Sure. And how is the organization coming along?” 

She sighed, sipping her coffee. “Slow.” She scrunched her nose. “Very slow, actually. I need to find other means of funding it, but Gotham city is broke, and supporters of international and national organizations are choosing to put their money on already well-established institutes and nonprofits. Ironically, all of us hit bankruptcy a year and a half ago, not just the upper class, but no one seems to care enough.” 

“We didn’t just hit bankruptcy, we also lost loved ones.” Sasha crossed her arms over her middle, and smiled a slow, sad smile, and Hestia blinked away the storm of emotions itching at her eyes. “Think about all the life insurance companies. Over ten million dollars. That’s a lot. I don’t know how we’ve managed to have our heads stay above water, it’s just, I don’t know, life seemed to have moved on. Slowly, but still. I mean, didn’t Wayne Enterprises launch a five-year project to rebuild Gotham city and also start funding projects and hiring more capable hands than just focusing on unions to barrel us out of this mess? We’ve already reconstructed two of the bridges and half of our underground tunnels. That should go down in history as, uh, awesome.” 

“That is a stupendous amount of responsibility to shoulder, and yet someone has to. Someone _is_.” She frowned a bit. “But despite the vigilant awareness we owe ourselves, I wouldn’t want to know what’s happening in the Narrows. Even with martial law stepping in for the first three months to clean out our streets in the aftermath, this city still remained infested with crime, and it has only gotten exponentially worse. For every step we take, it feels as though we’re taking two back.” 

Hestia strode back to her desk, placing her coffee down and opening the bag of bagels. She bit into one almost ravenously, because sometimes she simply forgot to eat, and her stomach rejoiced at the small morsel of food it received. 

“What do you make of that new vigilante?” Sasha asked after a few beats of silence. 

She pondered a moment. “Nightwing, I believe was the name? Well, I don’t know. He came right after the...Batman, a figure this city still mourns, and, though complicated, I tend to believe this vigilante’s presence a rather beneficial thing. He has put more criminals behind bars than our police force, and God knows we need such hope in the streets now more than ever.” 

“That’s true. This city truly has stayed strong, hasn’t it?” 

_And it always would,_ Hestia thought _._ “Perhaps we should give ourselves more credit.” 

“Oh, definitely,” Sasha agreed, walking over to her desk and taking a bite off one bagel. “Speaking of, check the news.” 

Sliding Gotham Daily closer to her, her eyes trailed over the bold black letters that read: **_Newly Elected Gotham City Mayor, Rupert Thorne, Ready to Revitalize the City into a New Age!_ **

Her brows twisted. “Rupert Thorne?” 

“The very same city councilman. Brittle politics, I guess. Also, he’s quite hideous. Former Mayor Anthony Garcia was, at the very least, utterly magnanimous. May he rest in peace,” she lowly finished. 

Hestia snorted. “That’s what you take from this?” She _tsked_. “But you’re correct.” 

They both mournfully sighed in unison. 

“All right.” She took a glance at her wristwatch. “I only have an hour to wash up and get to my classes. I’ll be back at two o’clock for the cargos, and then again at four. Would you be able to manage until then?” 

“Don’t worry; your world is in good hands. You just try to get back here in one piece.” 

“Thank you. You are the backbone to my backbone. We could have some dinner at around five, then?” 

“Only if you’re paying.” 

Hestia smiled. “Then it’s a date.” She collected her things, packing them into her bag, and donned her navy raincoat. 

“Oh, I almost forgot!” Sasha rummaged through the mail. “A new letter was dropped to our proposal box. I know it’s somewhere— Here it is!” She grabbed a beige envelope. “It’s got, uh, an owl stamped on it. How quaint, but we work with what we've got, I guess.” 

Suddenly, Hestia’s world stopped, and she froze cold. Her heartbeat rushed in her ears. Tentatively swallowing, she accepted the outstretched mail with an almost unnoticeable tremor from her hand. “Let me see,” she murmured, and for a long moment examined the texture of the paper, running her finger pads over its silky surface. No mistake. _It was the same one_. “All right, I’ll...I’ll look into it later. Thanks.” 

She felt Sasha’s hand gently come upon her arm. “Are you well?” 

“Of course,” she lied. “I’ll see you in a few hours.” 

With that, she walked out of her office and into the pouring rain, the envelope fisted in her hand. 

* * *

_BEEP. BEEP. BEEP_. 

The machine monitoring John Blake’s heartrate showcased the steady rhythm that enabled a certain calmness to soothe away the reeking doubt in the air, the abhorring kind that insisted upon thoughts of his demise, the kinds that said he was actually one foot down in the grave and was only capable of breath because modern technology provided him such luxury. 

But it wasn't just any modern technology, Bruce internally countered. It was Wayne Enterprises' best installment since over a decade prior, a donation to Gotham’s hospitals after Bane’s inferno. He would know, since he worked on the modifications with Lucius Fox himself. To abscond would have been to accept defeat, a word his vernacular did not recognize, a word Gotham city did not tolerate, and rightly so. As Bruce Wayne, he had managed to put more jobs on the market and food on the table, giving the city a future to look forward to. Alfred had wisely noted he didn’t necessarily need the cape and cowl to be a hero, but Bruce knew the Batman stood for something more than just a hero—he was a lifeline. For himself and as well as others. 

Whilst abroad, he had filed a lawsuit to counterfeit his bankruptcy, requesting the put options be nullified under the arguments that during the processing of the assets, it was done so under threat, the robbery on the stock market clear as day for the court to assess, and as both the holder and writer, only his side of the strike suffered. With the systemic analyzations of his arguments, the court decreed a full pardon with an eighty-five percent reimbursement, the remaining fifteen percent unfortunately lost in the damage of the robbery. But the fifteen percent didn’t worry him much as the momentary cul-de-sac enabled him to acquire investors on his five-year project to launch Gotham city into a proper, functioning metropolis, effectively distribute his dividends, and with that, catapult Wayne Enterprises back into business. 

And now, despite all his efforts, a person very dear to heart lay comatose in a hospital bed. The placid pattering of raindrops on the window failed to soothe the turmoil within his chest, the vein under his eye stark and pulsating as he held John’s hand and regarded him almost mournfully. 

He should’ve been with him. If not that, at least trained him as he had been trained by the League—ruthlessly, mercilessly, to hell and back. Instead, he abandoned him to his devices, to make do with the Batcave as he saw fit, as Bruce himself flounced about with Sel— 

He bowed his head, shutting his eyes. What a sweet cajoling, that was. What a lie. And what a fool he was for thinking he could be happy. 

But that didn’t matter anymore. Nothing mattered. 

He cleared his mind of the past, knowing self-pity only led a man to an early grave. Instead, he focused on his friend. 

Eleven hours ago, Alfred and him retrieved Robin from a roof, chest torn open and bleeding profusely, rushed him to the hospital—as this wasn’t an injury they could stich up and heal on their own—and then watched as he was admitted to the ER, remaining under the knife for nine hours before having his condition stabilized and escorted to a private room on the fourth floor. 

In any of those hours, in the seconds those hours consisted of, he could’ve easily lost him. 

Bruce popped his jaw, gaze hardening. _No_ , he then concluded. He would not lose Robin, because Robin was not one to lose readily. He would fight, as he’d fought for his life and the lives of many others, and he would come out of this alive. When he did, then Bruce would train him, until he could go no more, until he collapsed from his efforts, his limits pushed beyond repair, until he was all the more powerful for it, so he would never have to relive what he did on that roof. That, Bruce avowed. 

But first, he would find who did this to him, and he would make them pay. 

Pressure against his fingers caused Bruce to refocus. The heartbeat monitor released a flailing beat before stabilizing. He found Robin’s eyes slowly opening and falling on him. 

“...Bruce,” he voiced, or attempted to behind the oxygen mask. It vaporized, and Bruce found himself abruptly standing and hovering over his form. 

“Hey, hey, easy now.” He gently applied force to lay Robin back down as he tried to lift himself. “You’re okay. You’re okay.” 

Robin groaned, shutting his eyes in plain exhaustion. He parted his mouth to voice something, but once again his words vaporized. Bruce lifted the mask an inch and gave him his ear. 

“...Owls...” he croaked, voice broken and covered in splinters. “...Talons...immortal...dangerous...Robert...Ambrosi...us...need...find...” 

Bruce frowned at the broken sentence, but he knew in quintessence what Robin was attempting to say. “All right.” He nodded, and Robin’s eyes rolled behind his head. The monitor beeped a tumultuous rhythm. He held his friend as he shouted, “Nurse!” Then, much louder, “Nurse!” 

* * *

“MASTER WAYNE.” 

Bruce turned, sporting only sweatpants and a towel thrown over his shoulders, his hair still wet from the shower. 

Alfred placed the tray of food atop a small, round table by the window. “A little late lunch before you head out. Also, Mister John Blake has been safely placed in the room next to yours with a private doctor already attending to his most urgent needs. He rests now.” 

“Thank you, Alfred.” He walked into his master-suite closet, filtering through the a many expensive, custom-made suits hanging from the racks. He opted for a two-button, midnight blue piece with matching slacks, brown Santoni shoes, and, pressing a button to slide out shelves neatly stacked with his watches, cufflinks, and pieces of jewelry, a Reverso watch complimented with silver cufflinks. He forewent a tie. “What have you learned?” he asked, placing the clothes on his bed, and toweling his head. 

“Only that Robert Ambrosius has been dead for six years now. A master at history, he was known to lead many archeological expeditions throughout the globe, his last mission ending in Switzerland. Not much is known except his keen ties with Gotham’s elite. Expected, as he held auctions to the best bidders.” 

“That gives me nothing. What else?” 

Alfred sighed. “You did not let me finish, sir.” 

Bruce eyed him, awaiting a response. 

“After much digging, I found one person who accompanied him during his visit in Switzerland. Hestia Ambrus. Quite peculiar, the difference in surname, as she ostensibly could be his granddaughter. She must have changed it after their expedition, but the reasons as to why, I have yet to find.” 

“Hm.” He pursed his lips, dressing. “She couldn’t have changed it out of ennui. Something of great importance must have taken place in Switzerland. I’ll use that. What do we know about her?” 

“Only that she graduated from Harvard with a major degree in Anthropology and a minor in Bioarcheology. She has two PhD’s in those respective fields, is a professor at Gotham University, CEO of Ambrus Ltd., a small CRM company, and head of The Gotham Archeological Organization for Youths. The latter aids youths lead mentored expeditions overseas to cultivate their interests in the field. Well accomplished for her age, I should say.” 

“Interesting,” Bruce noted, cuffing his sleeves. “No family?” 

Alfred’s eyes momentarily went downcast. “A brother, mother, and father, sir, all died a year and a half ago, during Bane’s reign of terror, I should assume.” 

Bruce stilled in his actions, permitting the words to settle in the air, before silently tying his shoes. 

Alfred stepped closer, brushing away lint from his suit as he uncoiled. “What are you planning on doing with this information, now, sir?” 

He straightened his collar, and then unbuttoned the first row. “I’m planning on paying Miss Ambrus a cordial visit, and see what little secrets of hers I can unbury. She’s likely our only lead in this case. Now, do we have an address?” 

Alfred gave a deft nod. “It’s four o’clock, and business hours are drawing to a close. Take the Lamborghini. I’ll text you the address.” 

Within ten minutes, Bruce Wayne found himself racing down the streets of Gotham city. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote and rewrote the last part of the chapter so much, my brain can't spell for HELL now. But, this last version felt right as to the pace and present personalities of the characters that I, CONTENT, ECSTATIC, ABSOLUTELY THRILLED, am now ready to share it with yall. Enjoy!

Chapter Two, 

A moment of intense silence ticked by...and by...and by...as Hestia, arms wrapped around her middle, studied the envelope resting on her desk. To open or not to open, that was the question. She knew to leave it, burn it, even, but knew it was evidently wiser to uncover the contents in it. What other choice did she have? 

Braving herself, she tore it open and peaked inside. _Breathe..._

Tugging the letter out, she brought it closer to the window and unfolded it. A small object floated down to her feet, and she reached down, turning over what she now knew to be a picture. 

The very familiar and loving face of her grandmother, Ruthie Myers, stared back at her, her graying hair and piercing emerald eyes calling her home, calling her back to the only family she’d left, to live an unburdened life. Hestia recognized the immediate threat the mailing of this picture entailed, and bit back confounding emotions ready to swallow her whole. And yet, a certain memory she had buried far deep inside her still managed to slip past the cracks and resurfaced. Her vision began to blur. 

_You must go, and you must burn everything, you hear, Tia? Darling, you hear? Everything. They mustn’t get their hands on this treasury ever again._

_Don’t make me leave you. Please. I can’t. I c-can't, grandpapa. I love you. I love you! I can’t abandon you. Don’t ask that of me._

_You must. My darling Tia, you must. For me. For the world. Go!_

Her throat tightened, almost as if someone had their fingers snaked around its length and was choking the very soul out of her. She didn’t know how, but she rose to feet that surprisingly supported her weight. 

Straightening her spine anew, she brought the letter up to read it. 

It said, 

_You have been chosen to finish what your grandfather started. We have found you and we are now watching_. 

Her phone suddenly went off in her bag, alarming her. Gathering herself, she walked over to her chair, where it rested, and withdrew it. It was a voice note from an anonymous number. She pressed play. 

An eerie tune layered with a child’s voice began to sing a twisted nursey rhyme: _“Beware the Court of Owls, that watches all the time, ruling Gotham from a shadow perch, behind granite and lime. They watch you at your hearth, they watch you in your bed, speak not a whispered word of them or they'll send The Talon for your head._ ” 

Hestia almost instantly threw her phone down, appalled, angry, _disturbed_ , her flesh breaking out in cold sweat, her heart palpitating in her very throat. How did they know the exact moment to send it, the exact moment she’d open their letter? Have they been watching her, tailing her, this entire time? How did she not sense or notice it? 

Twirling around, she hastened toward her window and drew the shutter blinds closed, cutting off the feeble amount of light slipping into the room. 

_Deep breathe in... deep breathe out..._

Outside her office, Sasha’s desk line began to ring. She balked. “Don’t answer that—!” 

_Click_. “Hello, Ambrus Ltd., how may I help you?” A beat of long, crackling silence. “Uh-huh. And you’re sure I can’t come any other day?” Another beat of silence. “All right, I understand. Thank you, doctor. I’ll get right back to you; I just need to confirm something.” 

She brushed her hands over her face, at the precipice of tears. “Is everything all right, Sasha?” she called, clearing her throat. She had to get a grip. She couldn’t lose it here. 

“Uh, yes. No? I don’t know.” She heard the rolling of her chair and then the sound of her footsteps rounding her desk. She appeared at the door. “My cardiologist called, said there was something he needed to show me regarding my birthing of little Estie. He said he couldn’t talk over the phone and needed me to come to his office as soon as I could.” 

Hestia straightened; her fear momentarily forgotten. “Is everything all right? Did he say what it was?” 

“No, he wants me to be there personally. I filed everything, took care of the transactions and updated your schedule for tomorrow, is there anything else you need, because I think I need to go—” 

“Of course. No, of course, go. Do you want me to come with?” 

“No, that’s quite fine, I can manage. Besides, Estie is taking her afternoon nap, and I don’t want to wake her. She gets really grumpy. Speaking of, big favor to ask you, do you mind looking after her? I won’t be too long. I just need to catch him before his shift ends.” 

She nodded, waving off her comment of it being a big favor. “Yes, of course. Of course, go. Just keep me updated, and call me if you need anything.” 

She steepled her hands in gratitude. “I owe you one. Oh, and, I already prepared a bottle for when she wakes up, so just give her that and she’ll be okay.” 

“All right.” She walked over and gave her friend a hug. “Keep me updated, if you can.” 

Sasha hugged her back. “Thank you. Really needed that.” She released a nervous laugh. “Oh goodness, I wonder what it is.” 

“Hey, it’s going to be all right. Don’t panic. Whatever it is, we’ll handle it. First learn what seems to be the problem.” 

“Right.” She nodded, stepping back. “Yes, you’re right. Can’t be eating my nerves on sheer ignorance. I’ll see you in a bit.” 

With that, her friend gathered her purse and left the office, leaving her all alone with baby Esther sleeping soundly in her stroller. She rubbed her arms up and down, suddenly feeling too small, too vulnerable, naked, almost, and padded over to her desk. She plopped down in her seat and, feeling the ache in her soles, stepped out of her booted heels and placed her feet over her desk. The letter found its way to her lap, and she read the two sentences over and over again. 

She mulled over her options—there only seemed to be two—to either accept or decline, but the latter... how was she to execute that? And even if she did, how was she to walk away unscathed? What guaranteed the survival of her grandmama, who currently resided in Vienna, too far to be troubled by the likes of such horrendous threats? Her grandmama had switched back to her maiden name after the passing of grandpapa, and Hestia wondered if the so-called Court of Owls knew that. 

If they had managed to find her, then there was no stopping them from finding the only leverage they had on her. She shook her head, and covered her eyes with her fingers, pressing deep to stop the tears from once again forming. Her chin trembled, her lips curling low in constricted anguish. 

What was she to do now? 

She couldn’t betray her grandpapa’s trust, undo his last deeds, burn every molecule of hope he held for the future of this world, the future of Gotham, and put everyone’s life at risk, including grandmama’s. Including hers. But she also couldn’t let grandmama suffer either; by choosing to accept the Court’s request, she would be damning the rest of the world but saving her only family, but what kind of life would that be? She would abhor herself, would not be able to live with herself, would wish she had rather died than had done what she had. Either way, she would be labeled a monster, and there would be no turning back, no forgiveness. No reprieve. But grandma Ruthie would be well and breathing. 

And yet, what guaranteed such outcome? No, no, she then understood all too clearly the conundrum set before her. She couldn’t trust the Court. Her grandpapa hadn’t until his very last breath, and she wouldn’t commit such foolery either. She couldn’t trust anyone. Everyone was a potential threat from now on. She wished she could bring this to the attention of law enforcement, but that's what had gotten her grandpapa killed in the first place. Their usefulness only came into play when retrieving his decomposing body from one of the forests in Switzerland. 

She knew the verdict she had to make, and knew it would take every iota of strength left in her for it to come to fruition. 

She had to destroy _it_. Make absolute sure no one ever found it. Sought it. Exploited it. Not again. 

Every survival instinct she had entombed seized her, and she felt all the more alone for it. But she refused to be coerced by the likes of such people again, refused to be bullied into a corner. She would do what her family should have done all those years back—fight back. 

She had to strike now, while it was fresh to do so, before anyone came after her. After the passing of her grandpapa, her family had changed either their names or surnames, went under the radar, so the secret organization could not track them and, eventually, threaten them. Her grandmama owned several properties around Europe, and moved every few months, never staying in one spot for too long, lest there be a complication she couldn’t assuage immediately. And because of that fact, Hestia held out hope that her grandmama was, for the time being, well and safe in Vienna. She had to be, or the Court would have sent a much persuasive picture of her distraught state rather than a smiling Ruthie. 

She would reach her before they did, and whisk them away to a safer location. Somehow, someway, she would destroy the accursed treasury, change their names anew and, though it broke her heart to think and decide so, move out of Gotham forever. Maybe to somewhere in Europe, Canada, or even Africa. Start fresh. At that, Hestia at last released her tears, and they came in flows, scalding her cheeks and coating her lips and nose miserably. 

She knew even her fiery fight had its limits, and continuing life in Gotham was an implausibility as stark as day. 

Outside her office, baby Esther began to cry, no doubt startled awake by her heaving sobs. She clambered to her feet and rushed to her side, picking her up from her stroller. “Oh, baby, no, it’s okay. Auntie Hestia just needed some Me time, is all. _Shhh_ , _shhh_ , it’s okay, sweetheart, it’s okay.” She cradled her, rubbing her small back as her head came to rest on her shoulder. Her cries slowly waned to tiny whimpers, and Hestia couldn’t help but give her sweet-scented head kisses. “I think we are a bit hungry, aren’t we? Oh, yes, we are. Yes, we are. How about some milk?” 

Grabbing the bottle of warm milk from Sasha’s desk, she maneuvered her way back to her office, gently laying Estie down on one arm and feeding her milk with the other as she did so. Her small, plump hands reached up to jerk the bottle closer, fiddling with the top, her eyes lost to some imaginary world babies usually lose themselves in when being fed. She smoothly released her hold on the bottle, seeing as Estie already mastered the art of eating, and instead wiped at her cheeks and chin. 

Her fingers came away wet, and she sniffled. “My goodness, I didn’t know I cried so much. No wonder you woke up.” Suddenly, watching little Esther simply exist in her arms, her cherub cheeks pink and puffed, her small brows creased up at her in impish query, made her chest heavy with mourning. “I will do my best to be present at your birthdays,” she whispered. “I will bring you the best souvenirs from all over the world.” Gently swaying with her, she walked the room, whispering all sorts of promises, humming a lullaby and playing with her tiny curls. 

Tomorrow, she would book a flight to Switzerland. But for now, she would cherish these otherwise mundane moments. 

* * *

THE EARLY EVENING storm howled through Old Gotham, virulently molding its streets and buildings alike to a muggy shamble. 

Having parked parallel to a five-story building stretched by arched roofs and made robust by the intricate lacing of stoned parapets and the gruesome protrusion of horned gargoyles, Bruce exited his car—and was mercilessly whipped to a disheveled state in consequence. 

He jogged into the building, soaking wet. At the entrance, he spotted the guard at the desk was fast asleep, his cap resting askew on his head, and that the ribbed vault packed no elevator. The space was dimly-lit save for faint light filtering in through stained-glass windows over the curving climb of balustrades by the side. Stifling his disappointment with a purse from his lips, he allowed his braced knee take the first mounting over the wide, marbled steps. 

On the third-floor, a single door with an ‘Ambrus Ltd.’ carved into a black frame with golden letterings stood poised open. Inside, he was met by an empty room. Plowing his fingers through his drenched strands, he briefly examined his surroundings, hands skimming down his suit. 

Before him was a secretary desk that lacked its, well, secretary. Stationed behind it was a window, the shutters lifted to let in light, and a baby stroller. To his right was a comfortable kitchenette, the sink empty and dry. Littered around the room were pots of plants, their scents naturally perfuming the space, but the underlying trail of ambrosial gardenia and honeysuckle, he noted, lingered undominated in the air. 

He checked his watch. _04:25 p.m_. 

Stepping further in, he found another room creviced between the kitchenette and secretary desk. He made to announce his presence, but the soft, feminine murmurs stifled him. 

“Well, aren’t you the sweetest girl in the world for finishing your milk,” they were saying. “Yes, you are. Oh, yes you are.”

Breathing in deep, he rapped on the door. 

There was an audible gasp. The office, dimmer than the ribbed vault, had him staring more at a silhouette than a person. For a few heartbeats, the silhouette regarded him in return, and only then was he made aware of the sopping mess he must have created on her wooden floor. For the second time, he brushed his short strands from his forehead, and thumbed his back, voice deep and rough around the edges as he said, “The door was, uh, left open.” 

A quiet, “Oh.” Then, incredulous, “I’m sorry, I wasn’t expecting any visitors.” Perhaps she hadn’t anticipated finding Bruce Wayne at her door at such an ungodly hour. Well, he still had thirty-five minutes on her, of which a quarter of that was sufficient enough to draw out needed answers. “One...moment, please.” 

“I attempted a call,” he lied, “but your secretary must have missed me.” 

The soft pads of feet against wood echoed from the shadows, and for the briefest moment, he made out a dark mane of voluminous waves. She switched on a table lamp, and the room flooded with light. While the right side of the room had cherrywood cabinets stashed neatly with files, the left had a hardwood desk with a computer and another stash of opened folders, books, and a lone letter resting atop it. Stationed before the desk were two leather chairs, ceramic pots of large plants, a plush carpet and another dark cabinet. “My assistant is out for the time being, and she is not known to miss any. I also happened to be in today. Surely,” she finally faced him, molten silver eyes arresting him, “I would have heard something. As a man running on schedule, I apprehended you would be aware of common propriety. I’m afraid we don’t take unscheduled calls.” 

A practiced, non-condescending smile graced his lips. “I’m sure you don’t.” A droplet of water skipped down his temple to his chin. “Good old miscommunication, then. Bruce Wayne, by the way,” he continued, extending his hand for a formal shake. 

As she gently rocked the cooing baby in her arms, her eyes flickered down to his hand in dubiety. Then, she came to him, and the tantalizing scent of sweet gardenia and honeysuckle came with her. Her hand silkily slipped into his, and utter warmth seeped into his pores, heating him. _The storm must have momentarily chilled him_. Momentarily, being the key word. 

“Hestia Ambrus,” she provided, and withdrew her hand all too quickly, instead choosing that moment to gesture him inside her office. “You must be cold. Would you indulge in a cup of hot tea?” 

“Just the person I was looking for, and that won’t be necessary, thank you.” He fell into pace behind her. “I don’t plan on taking much of your time.” 

While they came to a halt by her desk, they did not sit. “So, what can I do for you, Mister Wayne?” 

_Plenty_ , he mused. _But, first..._ “To put it candidly, I have actually come here looking for a man. A man who my assistant informs last worked with you. If that is the case, then I would like to offer you a business proposition.” 

Her brows mildly rose. “All right. And would you happen to have the name of this said person?” 

“Yes,” he buried his hands in his pockets, “as a matter of fact, I do. Robert Ambrosius.” 

Her brows, with her face, dropped, and nearly did the baby in her arms—before she recollected her bearings and offered him an offhand smile. Alfred hadn’t mentioned the woman having any children, but he thought the detail of little consequence. “No. I don’t think I have. Doesn’t— Doesn’t ring any bells.” 

He tilted his head. “Are you sure? Because my assistant—” 

“—Your assistant must have made a mistake,” she interjected. She licked her ruby lips, the flesh sheening. “It happens. I have worked with many people, and names could get mixed up. Have gotten mixed up, to be exact, in the past.” 

“Right.” He regarded her, almost studying her. She stood tall, her shoulders squared. When his lids lowered, he spotted her toes wiggle underneath the hems of her black pantsuit, the only give-away to the agitation she must have felt at the mention of Robert’s name. _Here we go._ “He led numerous expeditions around the world, just like you do. He was good at what he did. If I’m not mistaken, his last expedition was in Switzerland.” 

Her lithe shoulders tensed, but they laxed just as quickly. “Oh.” She swallowed. “It is a gorgeous country, or so I hear.” 

“It is indeed.” He picked up a souvenir, no doubt laden with history, from her desk, examining the angrily sculpted face out of genuine intrigue. “You wouldn’t mind revisiting it, would you?” 

She blinked, stopped rocking her baby altogether. Lowly, tightly but politely, “I beg your pardon?” 

“Well,” he pursed his lips, placing it back, “a background check of your work shows you were there once, on a mission, were you not?” 

Her lips pressed shut, the silver in her eyes crystallizing. “I...” she began, then cleared her throat. “I’m sorry to disappoint, Mister Wayne, but I’ve never been in Switzerland.” 

Bruce furrowed a brow. “No?” 

A grit. “No.” _If looks could kill..._

He continued, unabashed. “This man, Robert Ambrosius, his body was retrieved from a forest three days after you boarded the plane back to Gotham city, were you aware of that? It is intriguing,” he cut her off before she answered his question, “how, even as a potential suspect, there were no interviews conducted on you, despite the fact that you were the last person to see him alive.” 

Along with the address, Alfred had sent him the autopsy report and the details pertaining to the on-going investigation on the murder of the man. The wounds Robert Ambrosius had attained were similar to that of Robin’s, as they were both cavernously clawed in the chest, a deliberate attack meant to reach the heart. While the enemy he recognized as being one failed with Robin, he had succeeded with Robert Ambrosius, as the old man’s organ had rested a few feet away in the crime scene. There was also one other thing Alfred had dug up, but he would safeguard that for later. 

“As I have stated before, Mister Wayne, I haven’t been to Switzerland, nor have I ever known a man by such a name. Your assistant must have erred. I simply can’t help you.” 

He offered a nonchalant smile, one that never reached his eyes. Not many did these days, anyway. “No, Miss Ambrus, he would not commit such a mistake. That man was last seen with you. Either you are lying, or you are hiding something. I’m willing to bet my money on the latter. I simply aim to know the reason of his involvement in Switzerland.” 

“Listen, Mister Wayne.” She took a guarded yet inimical step closer to him, and his nostrils flared as yet another hit of sweet gardenia and honeysuckle clouded the air he breathed. “I don’t favor the direction this conversation is heading, and I don’t particularly take a liking to those who accuse me of a murder of some kind, for that is grave indulgence on your part, because you _are_ mistaken, and terribly so, at that.” She flipped her hair of the darkest ebon—so unnatural in color, Bruce now deduced, so extrinsic, he at first thought it was the courtesy of the shadows—over her shoulder. “I have never met this man, and I tire of repeating myself.” 

“The man was previously a member of the Gotham Archeological Organization for Youths, an organization you funded.” 

“There are more than a hundred members, most of them undergraduates, most of them my students, so I don’t quite get your point.” 

“Yes, but none that donated in the public figures he did. Such people tend to stand out.” 

“Such people also tend to be in the lots, some I don’t get to personally thank due to my schedule. I am not a liar. Not a murderer, either. I also don’t have to stand here and pretend I owe any of your false allegation attention. But it is almost entertaining,” she then began, and thunder clapped outside, whistling wind beating the rain against the walls and windows. 

“What is?” he lowly required. 

Her shoulders went up in a shrug. “With all these questions, you sound like a detective. Has Bruce Wayne, Gotham’s Casanova, join law enforcement, and the world missed the datum? Or,” she quipped, “was playing a billionaire playboy getting too tiring you opted for a more serious role?” Innocently batting her lashes at him, she continued, “Am I in trouble?” 

He had an inkling of the tactic she was attempting to play, trying to veer from the topic at hand—strike him where he was most open. He chose to indulge her. 

And yet... Bruce ran the tip of his tongue against his teeth, his eyes briefly narrowing. _Playing_ , she’d noted, as if she didn’t really trust his act to be true. Bemusement tickled his chest, but he snuffed it out. “I didn’t know I was _performing_ a promiscuous role.” 

Gurgling, her baby sportively flailed her limbs, and tugged at the collar of her blue blouse, revealing smooth, creamy skin. She gently pried her little fist away before the material could get tugged any lower, and reached over her desk for a pencil with a small butterfly trinket at its end. She handed it to the baby, and she stuffed it in her mouth like it was candy. With a sigh, she switched her attention back to him. “Well, for one, you believed it as much and as strongly as the public believed you, but belief does not necessarily commercialize the state of truly being, existing, now does it?” 

“What does?” 

Another mild shrug. “Oh, I don’t know,” she feigned thinking, “honesty? A quality you, for the briefest time have known me, already think I lack.” 

“Ah.” He tipped his head down. “Aren’t we assuming a little too much?” 

She winged a dark, shapely brow at him. “Aren’t we, indeed, Mister Wayne?” 

“Perhaps.” He _tsked_ . “Or perhaps, Miss _Ambrosius_ , unlike your assumptions, my merely offering facts has you teetering on edge. One, it occurs, your grip slips on. But I do have to say, Ambrus does have a nice ring to it.” 

Heavy silence impregnated the space between them, all traces of amusement gone. She straightened; her gaze austere. “Is that so?” He opened his mouth, but she beat him to it. “It should, because that _is_ my surname. Listen, sometimes, I, too, wish Santa was real just so I could get those free presents, but realistically, he would never be able to come through the chimney without me first knocking him unconscious with a bat to the head for home intrusion. Now, I hope I helped clarify where we stand with each other.” She sighed, exasperated, her rocking of her baby a movement too stiff. “We have been running in circles for five minutes straight now, and you have rather entertained me impressively this fine evening, something I had not counted on at all. Though pleasant, I must say our little chit-chat has come to an end. I just can’t help you. If there isn’t anything more you would like to discuss, I’d like to get back to my work.” 

He guessed it had come to an end. 

_But..._ He held up a finger, reaching inside his pocket for his phone. “Speaking of breaking the law...” Perhaps this would aid her better understand what beating Santa with a bat entailed for him. Touching the screen, he then flipped the phone so she could study its contents—an old speeding ticket containing her picture and first surname, the third document Alfred had pulled up. He pocketed it when her eyes enlarged and her jaw slacked open. 

In disbelief, she whispered, “how did you get that?” 

“You weren’t easy to find, did well covering your tracks. I’m impressed.” 

Snapping her jaw tight, her eyes narrowed, the spiky length of her dark lashes fusing together and blanketing the voltaic silver behind them. Fury and fear molded her features into strenuous lines, and suddenly, all pretense left the room. “I’ll take that as an insult. What do you want?” 

“Answers.” 

“You seem to have them in the palm of your hand.” 

“Not enough. Now,” Bruce stole a step forward, and her baby, having noticed his proximity, extended a small, playful fist in his direction, “tell me about Switzerland.” 

Her brows creased in the middle as she clutched her baby’s arm closer to her chest. “Why— Why do you want to know? Why do you care? Where does Bruce Wayne fit in in all of this?” 

He shrugged, tossing an empty glance over the room. “You would be surprised.” 

“Would I?” 

He sighed, chancing to throw a bone at her. “Perhaps...the mention of a certain Court would be of simple explanation.” 

Her face blanched of all color, her throat tenderly swallowing some of her nerves. “We, uh... There is nothing to tell. We failed.” 

“Failed how?” 

A bitter laugh escaped her throat, and her eyes suddenly watered, turning the silver to melting mirrors. “We gave them what they wanted, and Robert... my grandfather,” her voice cracked, dimmed to a whisper, “he died. He died and there was nothing I could do about it. And so... I ran. Like a coward, I ran. Are you,” she focused on him, “are you one of them, sent here to remind me of the consequences lest I fail?” 

Bruce did not offer an answer, but underneath his clothes, every muscle coiled tightly. _Them_. The Court of Owls. The Talon, whatever it was. It was now proven; they had personal contact with the crime organization. What did they give them? Robin had mentioned the word ‘ _immortal_ ’, a loose term, but could it be anything in close relation to her work with her grandfather? 

He blanked his expression, made it uncrackable, and seconds, minutes, ticked by, and behind her eyes, he saw the engines in her brain work and ponder and plan. What was she thinking about?

“You are, aren’t you? Oh, God,” she turned from him, sweeping a hand down her face. 

He knew he was close, and he didn’t dare correct her thoughts on him. Better she thought him an enemy than a person who knew absolutely near to nothing. Her past, whatever it was they had to unearth for the Court, he could utilize them to his advantage. With his imperviousness and her lack thereof, he was roped closer to information he would attain one way or another. 

“Why did you run?” 

She shook her head, midnight waves cascading down a curved back. “To save myself. My family. Everything... but I shouldn’t have done so. I realize my mistake now.” Her shoulders slumped. “All right,” she whispered her surrender, and Bruce frowned. “I will fly to Switzerland. Tell them to rest easy, it will be in their hands before the week ends.” How defeated she’d sounded then. 

He had nailed the fly on the wall, but ended up with more questions than answers. What awaited them in Switzerland? He couldn’t take a wild guess for the life of him, but knew the crucible to everything he had to know about the impending enemy lay in the hands of this woman. She would be his way in; she would divulge him information otherwise unattainable. The Court of Owls had already made contact with her, it seems, and they had demanded she perform some act in Switzerland. He would accompany her. 

Mind made up, he said, “I will come with.” 

She jerked to attention, whipping around. “No, absolutely not. Your lack of experience will only prove to be a liability, Mister Wayne.” 

“I wasn’t asking.” 

“I wasn’t inviting, either.” 

“Yes, but you will soon come to learn that a man such as I do not await invitation. I am rather expected. As per our deal, you will get your cut once our business concludes.” He meant his words; he had just contracted her to indirectly lead him to the Court, and once that was done and over with, he would write her a handsome check for her cooperation. 

“Keep your money. I don’t care in the least for it.” 

“I suggest you keep it impersonal, Miss Ambrus, and have some faith.” This was enough for one day. He didn’t want to press too hard or expose too much. “I’ll keep in touch.” With that, he turned on his heels and departed. 

Before he reached the door, she called behind him, and he stalled, not turning, but listening. “It is pitiful how the people of Gotham think you are this city’s only hope. If only they knew how _rotten_ the fruit turned out to be.” 

Bruce slowly blinked, breathed in deep, taking a final whiff of sweet gardenia and honeysuckle, and walked out of the office. A small letter crinkled in his pocket, and, for the briefest moment, he wondered if she would notice its absence from her desk. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> he's such a thief, and he'll so get his sexy ass kicked for doing that, maybe even regret getting in bed with her. i mean, figuretively. cough.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter 3! at long last; enjoy!

Chapter Three, 

“T, could you please sit down and tell me what’s really happening? You’re starting to freak me out. And you know what happens when I freak out!” 

T, something only Sasha called her when she knew she was breaching sensitive terrains and needed the formality gone, at least for a moment, so she could be a friend. But Hestia knew she meant more than that—she was the sister she never truly had. Imaginably cliché, but it was the truth, a confessional reality she wouldn't dare voice aloud. She refused to question as to the reasons why, but admitted, so deep within, that Sasha was the only other family she’d forfeit everything in her life for. 

She'd come into her world when it had been irrevocably broken, picking up her pieces, be they sharp, shallow or so agonizingly piercing, she couldn't get up for days, when she didn't have to, when she knew she'd find a better employer if she'd just collected her things and showed herself the door—but she hadn't. She'd stayed. For whatever reason, she'd shrugged those wonderful shoulders and chosen to work by Hestia’s side. Ambrus Ltd. was as much Sasha’s company as it was hers. 

She never stopped to question her, inquire why she risked her career for a company that was going under, only recognized the will to perform her best thereafter, so nothing was rendered to waste again. To put it simply, Sasha had  _ faith _ in her, when she was least deserving, and it was an act she would never soil with forgetfulness. But, now, this was different. And it came with a terrible price, one that would tear her apart if she opened her mouth. Hence, she chose to wisely ignore her friend.

They were currently in her bedroom in Old Gotham, little Esther sleeping between two silken pillows on her bed with her mother relentlessly tailing her from the closet to the bed, from the bed to the closet, as Hestia haphazardly packed her suitcase. 

Separated into two compartments, the lower section of her suitcase was orderly arranged and locked with her most essential tools needed in the upcoming expedition, but the upper section received no such courtesy as clothes were rolled and tossed, rolled and tossed, rolled and— 

“T! You’re killing me here!” Sasha threw her arms over her head. “What happened! You can’t just hurl a ‘oh, by the way, I’m leaving Gotham for, like, ever’ in the middle of dinner without proper explanation!” 

It was currently 03:27 a.m. At six o’clock, she would board her flight to Switzerland. No more squandering invaluable seconds; the noose around her neck tightened with every breath she exhaled, lost, could not get back. She'd affirmed that the moment she’d lied to Bruce Wayne about acquiring the needed treasury for the Court, displaying a—hopefully—doleful state, praying his belief in her attempt to put on her best performance to date would manage to buy her some time. 

_ Bruce Wayne _ , she thought, stricken,  _ Bruce goddamn Wayne _ . One of the most powerful man in the world, a member of the Court. He most probably knew everything about her past, had ties in every organization, government or otherwise, known to man. How could he have acquired the information he had if he wasn’t? How could he have mentioned the Court if he didn’t know who and what they were? And why would he have  _ invited _ himself if not to track her every step in Switzerland for those abominable bastards? They’d sent him, of all people, they’d sent him to keep avid watch. Would he kill her afterwards? Was Bruce Wayne a cold-blooded killer?

The image of him pointing a gun to her temple, finger on the trigger, flashed through her mind, and chills abraded her skin. She didn’t want to think like that, but she didn’t want to be a fool, either. Right now, with her predicament, anything could happen at any given moment. 

That’s why she hadn’t waited for dawn to break; she couldn’t have. She’d booked the earliest flight she could get, despite it costing a fortune, and decided to leave before morning birds could start their twittering of the day. When she landed in Switzerland, she’d drive the car she’d already rented online to Vienna, fasten her grandmama to the passenger's seat, drop her off in a new, safe destination, and then drive back to Switzerland to finish what she had started all those years back. For now, that seemed like a sound plan. 

As she packed, the dark-haired man in her office occupied her musings, and more than feeling angry or terrified at the looming hazard, she most of all felt hurt, and it churned in the pit of her belly, flaming her chest, not allowing her reprieve. Hurt that someone as publicly esteemed as him was part of something so nefarious, she wanted to punch him where he stood in her office. Hurt that for some inexplicable reason her faith in such a questionable man was not rewarded, because, yes, she had been gullible enough to think he was perhaps Gotham’s only hope in such tumultuous times. Thomas Wayne had nearly bankrupted Wayne Enterprises to aid Gotham rise above the catastrophic depression, so why couldn't his son?  _ What an eye-opener that was _ , she internally snorted. But her amusement did not last long.

Panic pounded through her body, her togue stuck to the roof of her mouth as she toiled away in silence. Someone would have to scrape it off with a spoon, she thought, because she hadn’t spoken a word since dinner with Sasha. 

“T!” Hands finally clasped her shoulders and shook them. That allowed her tongue to rattle loose. She stared into frantic eyes overcome with worry. She didn’t want her friend to worry; there was much she was dealing with already. During dinner, Sasha disclosed that for many months now, she was suffering from peripartum cardiomyopathy, and her doctor had called her in to inform she wasn’t to ever have children; her heart was not improving and would fail if she were to undergo another pregnancy. It was a quiet dinner, and her own bad news hadn't necessarily made it livelier. 

But... “I can't,” she retorted, brushing her hands out of the way. “There is much at stake, Sasha. To explain it would mean to drag you in to this mess, and that is not a fate you want. I just need you to trust me on this, okay?” 

“Trust what, exactly? Where are you leaving, can you at least tell me that?” 

Another tossing of her clothes. “No. It’s best you don’t know.” 

“Okay. Well, all right, but how long will you be gone?” 

She zipped her makeup bag and hurled it through the air into her suitcase. “I don’t know.” 

“What about the company?” 

Hestia stopped, turned to her friend, “it’s yours,” she decided, and continued squeezing clothes into the nearly full suitcase. “When it’s safe to do so, I’ll mail you the signed paperwork. Perhaps even add in a will.” 

Sasha sputtered. “What!” This time, when her hands grabbed her shoulders, Hestia was at last brought to a halt. “What are you talking about? You can’t say that. Don’t say that. What is happening to you, T? One moment, you were okay, and the next, you’re not. What is it? Was it the letter from the morning? I saw your face. You didn’t look good. It is the letter, isn’t it? What was inside it? Give it to me, I’ll tear it. Burn it. I’ll kick whoever’s ass you think needs kicking, just tell me their name. We don’t have to accept proposals that we don’t want. You hear? No one can force, intimidate, or threaten us. Except each other, but that’s a whole different subject.” 

Her heart softened, and she cupped Sasha’s cheeks, ensuring she understood the important words coming out of her lips. “I  _ know _ . And that is why I’m leaving. Not because I want to, but because I have to. I need to fix something, Sasha, something that will destroy this world if I don’t. Do you understand me? I need you to say yes.”

She considered her words, gaze jumping from one eye to the other, as if searching for any signs of falsehood. Some sort of lie. Maybe even an obscured joke. When Sasha found nothing but utter solemnity, her face contorted in pain. “You’re really serious, aren’t you?” Her eyes pooled with tears, and she whispered, “I don’t understand.” She shook her head. “You’re all I have. I don’t want to understand.” 

Sasha didn’t cry easy, Hestia knew that. She hadn’t shed a single tear when Esther’s father abandoned her, she knew that too, because she was a living witness to the exchange of cold stares and words and even colder goodbye when the door had shut in her friend’s face. She recalled Sasha sitting in silence, then rising to make some tea—and simply moving on. She was born and bred in the Bowery, was tougher and sharper than a nail, but now, she was anything but. Watching her cry broke Hestia’s heart, and she  _ really _ didn’t need her heart broken right now.

“Please,” she whispered, her throat clogging as her own wave of tears threatened to choke her. “Sasha, please. I can’t stay. Everything is yours, all right? That’s all I can give. My life, whatever is in it. Take the money from the savings account. Use it. Spend it. Do whatever, it’s all yours. But I can’t stay.” 

“Why?” she demanded. “ _ Why _ ?”

“If I do, I might as well throw myself from the roof. Don’t push me for information I can't yet share.” 

“Then come back.” She sniffed. “You’re abandoning me. You’re abandoning everything. That’s not right, and you know it. Let’s take a moment, breathe, and talk about this. This is insane. There is no other word to describe it, T. It’s insanity.” 

A meager shrug. “I’m not denying it. I’ll tell you everything when the time is right. I promise. Just...support me one last time, yeah? Support me in this, no matter how abrupt, selfish or crazy it looks, because I need it, Sasha. Can you do that?” 

A moment so quiet filled the space between them, but her friend finally offered a deft nod. She embraced Hestia, arms looping around her too tight, but she didn’t mind. She savored the warmth, wrapping her own arms around her friend. 

“I’m not an archeologist,” Sasha murmured. “Just some boring accountant.” 

“The best boring accountant to ever grace this company and my life. You are the backbone to my backbone.” 

“As you are mine, T.” A pause. “Will I ever see you again?” 

Hestia tightened her embrace. “I don’t know.” 

That’s all she was able to offer, and what sad reality that was. How could she lead a life with no Sasha in it? As she imagined, the future only got bleaker, darker, and more unappealing. She was one of a kind, and she would miss her terribly. 

If Hestia didn’t stop herself from drowning in this whirlwind of emotions, she would never be capable of achieving the needed end results. Cold, ruthless and unwavering, were qualities she had to firmly embody. More so than before. Lives depended on her execution, and she couldn’t permit even the slightest slip, or heads would roll. 

“There is one more thing to trust me on.” 

A sigh. “What is it? And don’t tell me it’s painting the office olive green. That’s puke color and we both know it. Well, I know it, but that counts as us knowing it.” 

_ God, she was really going to miss her _ . “No. Much worse—Bruce Wayne. Be wary of him. Actually, don’t trust the man at all. He kind of sucks.” 

“Bruce Wayne?” Confusion laced her tone as Sasha stepped back to face her. “I thought we liked Bruce Wayne. Why would we—” She gasped, eyes going wide. “Is he the one doing this to you, whatever this is? I’ll kill him!” 

“More or less, he seems to be involved. I don’t know for sure. And, yes, I’m quite aware of my abuse of that sentence tonight, but my life irrefutably got much complicated and I want you to be safe when I’m gone.” She scrubbed a hand down her face, and lowered herself to the edge of the bed. Sasha came to sit by her, hand on her knee in support. “Can you promise to take the absolute best care of yourself?” 

Her friend nodded. “Yes. You know my talents excel in that not-so-clandestine part of my life. But as the godmother of Estie, can you promise me the same?” 

Hestia licked her lips, then pursed them. “I’ll try my hardest, of that you can rest assured.” 

Sasha smiled, and squeezed her knee. “Good. Whatever and whoever it is, you give them hell, like I’ve seen you do many times over. Don’t worry about anything else; your world is in good hands. Come here.” 

They fell into another embrace, and it lasted as long as they needed it to last. 

* * *

“IT APPEARS YOUR NEW FRIEND IS LEAVING, SIR.” 

The rushing sound of waterfall cascading down a scabrous wall of obsidian rocks echoed about in the Batcave. Sitting before his many screens, Bruce paused his scanning of the piece of letter he’d retrieved from the archeologist’s desk and lifted his head. 

“You can’t presume every person I meet an ally, Alfred.” 

“Well, for the very few you do, one can’t fault me.” He came down the steps, stopping by his side. “I have been alerted of Miss Ambrus’s abrupt departure to Switzerland today at six o’clock. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you have managed to scare her off than charm her into a conductive partnership.” 

“On the contrary, that is precisely what I intended.” 

“And here was I gathering your days of instilling fear in people long over.” 

His chin rested on his knuckles as he tapped through the screens categorizing information patterned on fingerprints. He eliminated both his and Hestia’s imprint from the process, opting for a clean-cut analysis. “Not people, Alfred. Criminals.” 

“She hardly seems the type, sir.” 

Bruce entered the letter into a screening glassed-box, silently wiring it closed with a code. A second later, blue light lined over its silky surface three times before checking green. “Hardly? She manipulated the system to her advantage. If her background is anything to go by, she is the least to be trusted.” He scanned the back, and repeated the process with the envelope. 

“That should scantly lend you the higher ground. No matter your skewered sense of justice, you yourself rejected the boundaries established by the same system, sir. Your wish now is to accompany a woman you do not trust on a mission you do not know the matter of?” 

“Well, I can’t just sit and bide my time, now can I? She is bait. Merely an emissary between me and the Court. I can handle her.” 

“Unlikely, Master Wayne, and I admit that with unfailing confidence.” 

At that, he regarded him from below his cocked brows. “You seem delightfully amused, Alfred.” 

He gestured the letter with the upward exposure of his palm. “They want her as much as you want them, sir. The letter does not reveal much, yes, but it does reveal enough for us to surmise that if or when this criminal organization, one she has managed to evade for years, succeeds in its endeavor to retrieve whatever it is she will, then perhaps we are to look for allies than prospective enemies. For lack of a better metaphor, no animal reacts kindly when backed into a corner. Especially a wounded one as she.” 

Leaning against his seat, he watched the screen scan the collective database he’d devised comprising of classified intel from government organizations, including the CIA, FBI, Homeland Security and Pentagon, for identifiable prints. “I will stop them before their plans come into fruition, whatever they may be. It can’t get simpler than that.” 

“And when it is  _ you _ backed into a corner? What then, Master Wayne? We haven’t yet uncovered the true potential of this Court of Owls. Who and what they are, and most prominently what they are capable of, are things encrypted. Well, we have an exemplary work of their ableness lying unconscious in a bed upstairs, but that is merely one out of a possible thousand.”

He understood the resounding truth behind Alfred’s words; it was one he learned to believe in as well. He had hung the cape and cowl long time ago—Gotham didn’t need the Batman. 

But the Batman was an essential part of Bruce, one he could never diminish to merely a symbol. For him, it was tangible, skin and bone. Hence, what of him? 

When he’d fallen into the well as a child, afraid and alone, and had risen out of the pit as a man reborn, he had divined what,  _ who _ , he could be without the mask. No longer did he deem it inerrant he master fear in destructive manners, but no longer did he saw fit to embody it, either, destructing himself. Instead, he’d  _ felt _ it. Had permitted the very human part of him to breathe and guide him through his self-imposed exile to ultimate liberation.

Every morning, he opened his eyes to a body that no longer ached in bones bruised or burned in flesh torn, and he did not know which he abhorred the most.

“Alfred,” Bruce lowly voiced. “Robin lies there because he knew risking his life would get him closer to answers, answers that would stop whatever madness that’s been poisoning this city. An act of war has been issued; I can’t ignore it.”

It was the truth. It was one thing to have Gotham protected by another masked hero, but completely another to have the hero almost murdered by a criminal organization. If Bruce didn’t step in, his city would burn to the ground. Of that, he bore no qualms.

“Wrong, sir. He lies there because you have somehow convinced him that the only way out of any ordeal was through kicking and punching. You have not passed the flaming torch—you have set the man himself on fire.”

His brows knitted. “Are you saying I am to blame for all of this?” 

“No, sir.” Alfred shifted his feet to better regard him. “I’m saying there is more to a war than the bulk of cavalry. More ways to win a war that is not spears and shields, and it is past time we chose them. I can’t bear to see you miss pieces of your soul each time I find you back in Gotham, bartered away to feed the growing monster inside you.” 

“The monster,” he echoed, “has long retired, Alfred. The Batman is nothing but stone now.” 

“ The monster may sleep, but any moment now and he might awaken. As Bruce Wayne—”

“—As Bruce Wayne, I have ascertained the future of my family’s name.” 

“And that is precisely my point, sir. You must understand that life outside this cave isn’t as confining as you think it to be. Now you have resurrected the Wayne Enterprises and repaired enough of the city to give back the people their lives. Surely you must have seen by now the magnitude that is Bruce Wayne.” 

“Then you know me well enough to not push this issue further.” He uncurled from his seat, giving Alfred his back. “You were right. I have passed down a death sentence than a legacy. I will right my wrongs, and it will start with the accompanying of that woman.”

He felt Alfred’s presence burn at his side. “Perhaps it is wiser to not exploit people as a means to an end, no matter how important the end might be. I only want what is best for you, Master Wayne. A year ago, you gave life a chance, buried the hatchet and moved on. Now, you are back where you started, but more lost than I’ve ever known you. The woman, it seems, has seen her fair share of trialed life—don’t make an enemy out of her too.” 

Bruce crossed his arms against his chest and inhaled the brisk air, and thought back to the time in her office, remembering her expressions, her words, the emotions curdling behind her eyes. “There are no feelings lost between her and the Court, but there is something they have on her that is prompting her to finish what her grandfather started. We need to learn what it is. Perhaps her child?” 

“Her child?” Alfred inquired, befuddled. “She hasn’t got any, sir.” 

Bruce turned to him. “There was a baby girl in her arms.” 

“She could belong to her assistant, Miss Sasha Andrews. The research I’ve conducted on Miss Ambrus suggests a life as romantically uninvolved as your current take with the outside world, sir.” 

He ignored Alfred’s remark, choosing instead to face the screen as it flashed the results. He’d used the vacuum metal deposition technique that involved melting gold, spreading fine film over the fabric, and then heating up zinc thereafter help it stick to the gold to better unveil the three impressions marked on the letter and envelope. It’d wielded him concrete evidence—one he now met with a deep scowl to his lips. 

The all too familiar face and name of William Earle graced his screen—the third fingerprint. 

“Interesting development,” noted Alfred. “I thought Mister Earle had retired. The Wayne Enterprises was even kind enough to offer him stipend.” 

“Apparently not.” Bruce squared his shoulders, marching to the elevator. “Pull up every detail you can on him. I want to know who he met, talked, or even laughed with in the past decade. Everything.” 

“All right, sir. May I ask where you are heading?” 

“I have a plane to catch.” 

A sigh, but one that was steeped with begrudging understanding. “I will have the jet and the necessary accessories made ready for your immediate departure. Be careful, sir.” 

He climbed into the elevator and pressed the arrowed button. “Always am, Alfred. Thank you.” 

And up he went. 

* * *

CAREFUL NOT TO JOSTLE Sasha awake, Hestia clambered out of the bed, untangling their limbs. 

Sasha sighed, and she automatically paused, waiting, before she murmured something under her breath and shifted closer to Esther, falling deeper asleep. She drew the covers over the both of them, taking in their serene features for the last time for safekeeping, and bid her silent goodbye. 

Taking hold of her suitcase and winter boots, she quietly exited her apartment, padding down the stairs to the first floor. When she reached the lobby, she put on her knee-length booted heels over her tight, dark pants and straightened her equally as dark waist-length faux coat, tightening the belt looping around her waist. She kept her hair loose, and it fell over her shoulders in smooth waves.

Inhaling one final brave breath, she marched out of the building—and straight into her worst nightmare. 

Hestia paused above the steps, staring at the Rolls Royce parked by the entrance with its owner casually leaning against its hood, hands tucked inside a dark gray parka jacket and booted feet crossed at the ankles. 

Bruce Wayne, clean-shaven and dark locks slicked back, having spotted her form, tossed a hubristic smile in her direction, all ‘ _ gotcha! _ ’, and patted the passenger seat door.

It was 04:50 o’clock, the cresting hour of twilight stringing along the horizon. How did he get to her so quickly? Didn’t matter, she now decided. He most assumingly tracked her, perhaps even booked a seat next to her own.

She exhaled, and a cloud of smoke formed in front of her face. With the world yet to awaken, the street remained empty and wet for now, and tiny drizzles of rain flicked against her revealed cheeks. But more than that, dread swam in the pit of her stomach alike a shark in deep, bottomless water, gnawingly hungry for even a bit of placation. It was going to be all right, she deduced, chin going up. She wouldn’t allow his presence to ruin her plans. As a matter of fact, two could play at this game.

“My, my,” she voiced, almost hopping down the steps. “Is this all for me?”

Before he could respond, she tossed her suitcase at him—and it nailed him straight in the stomach as he abruptly caught it.  _ Nice reflexes _ .

He grunted low, a perfect lock escaping its tethered position from his combed head and falling over his forehead in response.

“If you would be so kind,” she added with a smile. Once again, she didn’t wait for him as she opened the front door and slid inside. Just before she closed it, he bypassed her, and the scent of lemongrass and sandalwood accompanied him.

She cleared her throat as the startling headiness of him briskly filled her lungs, and then shouted a, “Careful! All my valuables are in there!” as he tossed her suitcase in the backseat and slammed the door shut. A moment later, he was in the car with her, starting the engine.

“I have to admit, I was a bit hurt when you didn’t call.” The RR smoothly roared to life, and the wheels glided down the street as he pressed on gas. “Had to be alerted by your departure all by myself.”

The uniformity of his tone gave nothing away. But…was he jesting with her? Amusement spurted in her chest, but she quickly smothered it. This man, whose insufferableness was likely rated as high as the digits in his bank account, would  _ not _ entertain her.

“Never thought I had to. Never will. Besides, Switzerland is best traveled alone.”  _ AKA, you’re not needed. Get the memo. _

“Ah,” he noted. “So we  _ are _ traveling to the country you’ve never been in.”

“Well, I should hope so, Mister Wayne, or else you wouldn’t look too smart not knowing where you were truly heading, now would you? Again, let me rephrase: I work best alone and you’re crashing my solo party.”

He increased the speed, and Hestia, peculiarly enough, did not worry for her safety. About him was a calm and collected aura, and it inspired equanimity in her, one she rancorously admitted set her nerves on ease.  _ The worst calm is the one before the storm _ , she reminded herself. Bruce Wayne appeared to be the personification of that phrase, and she sensed it in the marrow of her bones. Something she could not put her finger on curdled beneath his flush skin, when he spoke in that almost soothing, balanced tone, not too low or high, that caused the hairs behind her nape to prickle in awareness.

Even now, with one hand on the wheel and the other on the gear shift, he remained poised and collected. “I see we’re skipping formalities and outdated courtesies and jumping straight for the throat. Woke up on the wrong side of bed this morning, Miss Ambrus?”

Her jaw clenched.  _ She would not throw herself out of a moving vehicle _ . “Since I’m not kept awake at night by the underlying threats I deliver on people, Mister Wayne, I woke up just fine.”

“Yet you are the one that got in my car. Fancy that.”

He took a left turn, palm swerving the wheel, and her head whipped in his direction. He did not deny the matter that he oh-so-obliquely threatened her. “I just thought of something.”

“And that is?”

“How the notion of us conversing less might allow me amnesty from your constant badgering. And they say you’re the man with the  billion-dollar idea.” She didn’t wait for a retort as she turned on the radio and increased the volume to some pop song. He didn’t stop her, and she didn’t care. Crossing her arms against her middle, she faced away from him and instead concentrated on the view outside her window.

The sun was yet to rise, and the towering buildings of Gotham city offered an almost grotesquely misshapen silhouette in the background. As they passed the familiar streets of the Clocktower to the Diamond district to then the Upper West Side, her chest grew heavy with conflicting emotions.

Wordless, she watched her favorite city blur past her, each road, side block and cornerstone ingraining themselves in her memories. Her favorite bakery. Her favorite coffee shop. Her favorite stores. The restaurant Sasha and her dined in almost every night. The district park they took Esther out to for a stroll. It was a montage congregating all her favorite scenes.

Her chin trembled, and she bit her tongue.

She would not display vulnerability here. She wouldn’t display it at  _ all _ , not until this mission saw its success.

In the dark, they drove through the streets of Gotham, the only light coming from the streetlamps and headlights, and Hestia found her eyes studying the reflection of Bruce Wayne from her window.

In control of the wheel, he remained unaffected, but when he raised his hand to rub the underside of his chin, she gathered he, too, was lost in some deep thought. What was  _ truly _ in it for the man who seemed to have it  _ all _ ?

The circling shark in her belly revealed its sharp, ugly teeth, and she slowly faced the empty road.

It never felt more wrong to leave Gotham city than it did in that moment.


End file.
